


Touch Me In The Morning

by sixtysevenlmpala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Batcave, First Time, Frottage, Hair Kink, M/M, Season/Series 08, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:51:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixtysevenlmpala/pseuds/sixtysevenlmpala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://d5133judy.tumblr.com/">Vanessa</a> who gave me this [shortened] prompt: "Dean's always been fond of Sam's hair, but he'll never admit this out loud and one day he accidentally discovered that actually Sam really liked getting his hair petted by Dean but of course, Sam always tries to hide it as a secret. Dean also found that, if he smoothed over Sam's hair a certain way, it'll immediately turn Sam on like WOAH."<br/>More Batcave sex. Not even ashamed. Originally posted on <a href="http://sixtysevenlmpala.tumblr.com/post/48564493304/the-first-day-they-spend-holed-up-in-the-batcave">tumblr</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch Me In The Morning

The first day they spend holed up in the Batcave, Sam sleeps in. Dean leaves him be, he deserves it, but it gets to around noon and he can’t help rolling his eyes, because _seriously_. He abandons the axe he was polishing and pads along to Sam’s room, not bothering to knock because boundaries have long since dissolved between the two of them. “Mornin’, sunshine,” he says as he reaches the side of Sam’s bed, and he has no idea _why_ he does it, but he reaches out and runs a hand through Sam’s hair, brushing it out of his face.

Sam smiles in his sleep and sighs, a happy, content noise of the sort that Dean hasn’t heard from him in a long time. Sam nuzzles his face into his pillow, almost like a kitten, and Dean pauses. After a second, he does it again, and that draws out a low “Mmm,” from the depths of Sam’s throat, something that sounds so overtly sexual that Dean feels like he’s intruding.

Swallowing hard, Dean backs away, gets to the doorway and clears his throat so he can bark, “Sam!” His brother jolts awake, looks straight over to him with wide eyes that say he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t have, and that marks the first time.

***

The next day, Dean makes lunch. It’s soup, and he made it from scratch, thank you very much. He’d never tell Sam, but he’s kind of secretly enjoying taking care of him like this again, however much of a burden it was when he was a kid. He never took the time to appreciate spending time with Sam like this, without hunting in the way.

Without a thought, he places Sam’s bowl onto the table in front of him and as he walks behind his chair, he ruffles his hair. (It’s soft and messy, a little tangled.) It’s just shy of a regular big-brother-type thing; just a fraction too slow, too careful, too reverent. Too much of _something else_ infused in the gesture for it to really be considered normal behaviour. Sam immediately turns stock-still, his spine a completely straight line as he sits up in his chair. His sentence trails out, “This looks really…” and after a few seconds of Dean’s fingers petting at his hair, he slowly looks up at him. “Um. What. What are you doing?”

That stumps Dean for a second, because hell, he doesn’t know. So he replies, “Nothin’, dude,” and playfully cuffs his little brother around the back of the head, and that’s that.

***

Two days after that, Sam gets annoyed. He won’t tell Dean why. There’s probably no reason; out of the two of them, Sam is surprisingly the most susceptible to restlessness, or maybe just the one less equipped to deal with it. Either way, being cooped up inside the Batcave, however awesome it is, is getting to him. He’s in the study and Dean can see him from the dining room, catches it out of the corner of his eye when Sam slams the book he was reading closed with a frustrated _thud_ , stands up abruptly.

Dean doesn’t quite get what he mutters, something about “what the fuck are we doing, we could be _doing_ something, something that fucking _matters_ ,” but Dean intercepts his path as he comes out of the study, curls his hands around both his wrists.

“Sam, hey,” he says firmly, eyes locked on his, and Sam doesn’t say anything but Dean doesn’t expect him to, so he just yanks him into a tight hug, squeezing him hard. “We deserve this,” Dean mutters, and Sam nods, but he’s still tense. Dean can feel it, practically all of his muscles are locked and knotted and twisted up with it, so he takes a breath, presses his lips together and decisively brings a hand up to Sam’s head. He smoothes it through his hair before he can think better of it, and Sam makes a soft noise somewhere near Dean’s ear. “Okay?” Dean asks quietly.

“Yeah, just—“ Sam mumbles, and Dean nods and shushes him, strokes his hair again.

By the time they’ve broken apart, the air between them feels charged and unfamiliar, like they’ve drifted out onto some uncharted territory and Dean hasn’t a clue where the goddamn map is. Sam’s stopped the angry shaking, but the way he looks at Dean seems a little clueless, his mouth half-open with unspoken words as if he’s not quite sure what to do. Sam clears his throat, looks at the floor and takes one giant step back, then promptly stalks out of the room, leaving Dean dumbstruck with a fluttering in his stomach.

***

Four days later – during which time Dean does an exceptionally shitty job of pretending everything’s normal when it’s not ( _it’s not it’s not he can’t stop thinking about Sam and Sam’s fucking hair and the way it feels under his fingers shit fuck shit_ ) – it’s 1:45AM, and Sam knocks at Dean’s bedroom door.

Dean’s not asleep, but he’s floating somewhere in that in-between space, so his response is a groggy, “Sammy, what—?”

Silhouetted in the doorway, Sam hugs himself and says almost shyly, “Can I…?” and takes a couple of steps into the room. “I. I dreamt that—fucking Leviathans were back, and… and I saw them get you—you were—Dean, you were—“ and Dean struggles to sit bolt upright in his bed, switching the lamp on.

“Hey, no. I’m here, s’what I am. C’mere.” Sam goes to him, tripping over his own feet in his hurry to get to the bed, to safety, to Dean. Dean shifts to the side, making a Sam-sized space and opening his arms so that Sam can slot right in, legs tangling together, Sam’s stuttery breaths on his neck. This time, Dean doesn’t hesitate; he pets Sam’s hair with a certainty, a kind of soft determination to make it better, and he keeps doing it until Sam calms down, realises that Dean’s really there and all in one piece.

In truth, he keeps going until long after that, finding his own brand of calm in the soft strands gliding between his fingers. Sam’s not asleep, and they both know it, but neither complain and neither pull away. Their breathing falls into perfect time, to the slow beat of Dean’s hand stroking through his brother’s hair, and after a while, Sam murmurs, “Thank you.”

“S’okay,” Dean whispers, “I get it,” and he thinks he does.

***

The morning after, everything comes to a head.

Because when Dean wakes up, his hand is still tangled cosily in Sam’s hair, and Sam is sprawled out on top of him, making it hard to breathe – and that’s less to do with Sam’s weight on his ribcage and more to do with Sam’s freakin’ _closeness_. He’s everywhere, literally everywhere, and Dean knows he could move and get the hell out of this situation before he embarrasses himself, but he doesn’t want to. He really doesn’t, and he’s past the point of caring about that. Sam’s head is resting on his shoulder, facing up at him, and Dean smoothes his hair back off his face, curls it behind his ear and scratches his nails there as he does it. Sam’s lips quirk but he doesn’t wake, though, so he tugs a little, with equal parts playfulness and curiosity.

And Sam moans.

He opens his mouth and moans, soft and needy and pretty much the best thing Dean’s ever heard. He freezes, though, his whole mind comprised of only white noise and the words _holy shit_ , because he has no idea where to go from here. Sam seems pretty sure, though; in the long, long moment before he’s conscious, he shifts and grinds his half-hard cock casually into Dean’s hip through layers of cotton, and Dean’s breathing catches.

“Fuck.” And that’s Sam awake.

Dean swallows down nerves and hushes him, “No—it’s okay.” His heart is pounding and his mouth is so goddamn dry but, “This is okay.”

“But—“ Sam mumbles, his eyes wide, stirring with a frightened want, and Dean rakes his nails through Sam’s locks once more.

“This a thing?”

Sam lets out a breath and after a few seconds, he nods, still keeping up the impression of a deer that might spook at any given moment. “It’s, uh, it’s not—it’s only when it’s you.” Dean raises his eyebrows, and Sam explains softly, “It feels nice. Safe,” and he’s blushing hard, cheeks colouring a dark pink, but Dean just kisses him because it looks gorgeous on him – and praise everything, Sam kisses him right back, gasping a little when Dean pulls at his hair.

“Go on,” Dean murmurs, his other hand finding its way to the small of Sam’s back and pressing, urging him forward, closer. “You can.”

A breathy sound slips from Sam’s lips and he rolls his hips tentatively, cock dragging against the bone of Dean’s hip through their boxers. His hands claw at the thin cotton of Dean’s t-shirt, and he gives a quiet, disbelieving moan when Dean starts to card his fingers through Sam’s hair, sifting through the strands at a rhythm that Sam’s hips instinctively fall into pace with.

It shouldn’t feel this right and it shouldn’t feel this special, Sam rubbing off on his hip and panting into his neck, one leg thrown haphazardly over Dean, but it does, and Dean knows better than to question it. As Sam’s hips speed up, his movements melting into something more urgent and breaths bursting out through a clenched jaw, Dean lets his touch turn a little rougher, tugging instead of petting, winding strands around his fingers and pulling enough that Sam’s head has to tilt back. Sam’s eyes, wild and desperate, find Dean’s own, and Dean can’t look away.

They don’t talk, though; not one word until after the final jerk of Sam’s hips, the soaking of the wet patch through both of their underwear that makes Dean shudder too, fingers curling tight in Sam’s hair. They’ve said enough that they never needed to in the months, years leading up to this, and much of what mattered was never said; touch is really all that counts here and now, shaking and gasping together on Dean’s memory foam mattress, everything they never once voiced coming out in whimpers and white fingernail crescents on flushed skin.

Sam’s breath slows steadily, little sparks of aftershocks catching it every now and then, and Dean’s almost afraid to speak, anxious not to shatter whatever this is. Thankfully, it’s Sam who takes the leap first.

“Yeah, okay,” he mumbles, “definitely only you,” and Dean huffs out a laugh.

“Sammy,” he whispers, eyes fluttering closed as he lets the contentment and the happiness wash over him, the feeling of at last. “S’always only been you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, feel free to leave a comment/kudos if you liked!


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